In the space between heartbeat and revelation, a whisper echoes—
words scattered like autumn leaves over untrodden paths—
where thoughts weave into intricate tapestries and unravel, unravel
the threads become planes of—
Lost in translation, the voice murmurs secrets to the wind, but nobody
listens, and the sky becomes a canvas tainted with colors that shouldn't exist,
a palette of forgotten dreams and—
Remnants of a thought suspended in time, caught mid-sentence,
like a question without an answer freed from its—
Are these the scattered thresholds to be crossed, asking not where but when, if only one could—
Visions drift past in technicolor haze, forming and reforming shapes only partially recognizable,
ephemeral grasp attempts to trace—
Read between the whispers*, they say, listen not with ears but with heart—
echo caves filled with—